Morning Light
by Silberias
Summary: Two people find each other, sweetly supporting one another and understanding. Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper.
1. Chapter 1

This is my Sherlock OTP. I can't even help it, it is so perfect and awesome. I love it to pieces and I want all of you to as well.

So, Mycroft/Molly. This takes place after they've kind of found each other, ish, I don't even know. There are another few chapters after this!

Enjoy...?

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Sherlock knew the reason why no bullet had even been headed for Molly. Not even Jim Moriarty was brave enough to attempt the life of Molly Hooper—not on any merit of her own in Moriarty's world, really, but because she was seeing Mycroft Holmes. No one was stupid enough to truly provoke that man.

It didn't _really_ matter in the end, because he and Mycroft had worked this out months ago. Sherlock had asked his elder brother to let Moriarty out of his cage, and to allow him to lead the madman on a merry chase. They'd even planned the way Moriarty would attempt to best Sherlock, to ruin him. It involved faking his own death, to everyone who knew and loved him.

Towards the end, he had been terribly sad to leave John in such darkness—to leave everyone in such darkness, but it had to be done. Not even Molly, his potential sister-in-law, knew the full truth of everything. Sure, she helped him fake his death, yes, but she wasn't entrusted with the plan.

Nonetheless, she had stumbled on his grief at leaving John to fend for himself—saying that he looked sad when he didn't think John was watching. Sherlock was very lucky that Molly was seeing his real arch-enemy rather than Jim Moriarty who only fashioned himself as such. She could have used that information against him, the sad and furtive looks at the doctor's back, but Molly was inclined to be kind towards him.

The romance between Molly and Mycroft was sweet—if Sherlock was going to use the word for anyone, he would use it for them—and he was glad he'd started it. Well, sort of. He was the reason their lives had intersected, and he was glad that Molly had found a man to place her affections on. A man who would return them, at least. Sherlock also had a high standard for who he would allow to have Molly Hooper—the person had to be at least as smart as him, and as equally or better able to protect her if it came to it.

Molly had managed to find just the man, and for that Sherlock was glad.

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	2. Chapter 2

Hiya :D

So this story is posted in its entirety over on Tumblr so if you want to read it super fast you can do that. But the chapters posted here are a bit modified, so the better versions will be here. Thanks also to the two reviewers so far! Also my favorite crossover ever ever ever is the 2011 Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy remake with Sherlock so that is where "Peter Guillam" comes from. Richard Litton is Guillam's boyfriend from the movie (made up by the writers, originally Guillam is much older and has a wife).

Enjoy!

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Mycroft pretended that his brother was dead, allowing Molly to hide Sherlock. It would never have worked without his aid, of course, but Molly didn't know that. He and Sherlock had also agreed that she never would—their plans to kill Moriarty and get access to his network had been put in motion long before he and Molly had started seeing one another. He let Molly comfort him, while also seeing all of the traces of his brother's continued existence. If the entire series of events between Baskerville and Sherlock's "suicide" had been brought about by chance, then Sherlock would be dead by now. But he wasn't. Because they were brilliant—but it would hurt Molly to tell her that her help had been calculated in, that she'd had no true enterprise in the scheme.

The woman was sweet herself, staying the night sometimes and curling up with him in bed. Mycroft didn't sleep much more than Sherlock did, but he spent more time in bed than his brother. Molly made it worth it, actually, to spend more time laying on his side, with an arm wrapped around her. Feeling her muscles relax under his hands, the tension bleed out of her, comforted Mycroft. She trusted him, a rare thing in his life, and the fact that she was always so keyed up let him know that his brother was alright.

Eventually she would break and tell him the whole story, but Mycroft was prepared for that. She, unlike Sherlock and himself, _cared_ about secrets kept. She almost always told him everything, and he was a bit admiring that she so far hadn't made a peep about his brother. It was not an advantage in any sense, but luckily Mycroft was in a position where if he said "I cannot tell you," then Molly was grateful he was speaking of it at all. It was his promotion to Control, M, and a few other shadowy positions, in the early nineties that allowed him to even speak of his job to Molly.

Looking at her sleep, in the dim light coming through his windows, reminded him of what his old boss Guillam—_Control_—had told him once.

They are so very beautiful because they are so very innocent to the things which keep them safe. The older man, who rested somewhere between _uncle_ and _grandfather_ in Sherlock's life but was closer to _father_ in Mycroft's, had elaborated occasionally when they were reading the files of family members or lovers of Circus employees. Ignorance is so often deadly in their profession, but being able to shelter one of those ignorant loved ones was therefore all the more satisfying.

_Do not lie too large, however, Mycroft. It has the potential to ruin you, and the ones you love._

Guillam, when he retired from the Circus in 1998, had only told Mycroft what that meant recently. He'd gone to visit his old boss—and the man Guillam considered his husband—five years ago. The two elderly men had welcomed him into their home, and Guillam told Mycroft how he'd nearly lost _Richard_ in the early seventies.

"I told him too little. Things were serious enough between us at the time that I should have told him that my job was dangerous, and that although unlikely it was possible I might have to ask him to leave for a time to keep him safe. I should have told him that I still loved him even if that happened, and that I would come for him when it was safe. Mycroft if you are ever in that position you must make it clear that, while you cannot _cannot_ elaborate, you are doing it out of love and that you are trying to save their life. If you tell them less, you diminish the chance of them taking you back. If you tell them more, you will kill their innocence, the thing you love most about them."

Mycroft had gazed at the wrinkled old hands of the two men, entwined easily across the small distance between their armchairs. Theirs had been a subdued, quiet, easy romance dating back to the late sixties—forty years, an unimaginable time period in their profession. So, at the time, he had been a bit dispassionate about Guillam's advice. But now, with Molly cuddled up against him, he understood.

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	3. Chapter 3

I love this ship and shall go down with it...

Enjoy!

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Molly couldn't shake the feeling that Mycroft knew she was hiding Sherlock. Mycroft was just so smart—smarter than Sherlock if she was honest, because he didn't _require_ things to be clever—and she didn't see how she'd ever be able to hide Sherlock from him. But her boyfriend never said a word about it, never asked. It was why she became increasingly sure that Mycroft had figured her and Sherlock out, because John always asked if perhaps Sherlock wasn't dead where could he be?

Mycroft, Sherlock's own brother, expressed no such curiosity. Instead, he carried on in their relationship was he always had. It made Molly happy that despite everything that had changed in her life since Sherlock had holed up in her flat, Mycroft was still himself.

He was twelve years older than her, but it showed in only a few ways. He had an easy familiarity with how to please a woman, he could do his own laundry with practiced efficiency, his cooking was more than adequate, and he was losing his hair. He was also had just a thread of clinginess in him. She'd asked him not to constantly stalk her, to which he had smiled without saying anything. When she visited his home, a house very much like the house Mrs. Hudson had divided into flats, he was always present in the same rooms she frequented.

The books he had were generic—classic books arranged alphabetically by author, no popular titles of recent decades—but Molly read them anyway. Mycroft would sit next to her, on his phone speaking in clipped tones to whoever it was that needed his ire that particular day, with one of his hands holding hers. Molly had gotten quite good at turning pages one handed.

She took these days, sitting in his study while he ran the country—if not the world—from his phone, as her days of rest from Sherlock. She might have broken, when he was between phone calls, and told him everything if not for the affectionate smiles he would sometimes bestow her. Mycroft knew, she was fairly sure, so there was no reason to bring it up with him. It was safer for Sherlock anyway, she reasoned.

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	4. Chapter 4

One more chapter after this one. Thanks for the reviews so far! And the follows and the everything and yes.

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"Does it bother you?" her question dragged him up to rest his chin on her stomach—he was laid out across the bed, using her as a pillow. Molly smiled down at him, her eyes sleepy, but her eyebrows were pinched together just a touch. Mycroft kissed her belly, rolling his face just a little into her skin, his hand grabbing a little tighter around her knee. She was taking a night off from sheltering his brother, and he was happy to take full advantage.

"Does what?" He already knew, of course, but it was polite to ask. Mycroft heaved himself up a little, kissing his way up towards her breasts. They were so very well proportioned to her body. Her chest blushed a little under his eyes—and he liked the way her skin buzzed his lips a bit as she spoke again.

"Keeping secrets?" Mycroft huffed a laugh which had Molly twitching nicely against him. He liked her. A lot, enough to share just a little.

"I was raised around them. Like well-tailored, but worn gloves they are easy to put on. They are easy to move dexterously with, despite the numb, unfeeling layer. A second skin which I've known all my life. Sherlock always disliked how comfortable I was." He nuzzled the indent of her clavicle, opening his mouth to gently run his teeth along the barest hint of the bone. "But you don't seem to mind."

She pushed his hair back from his forehead, scratching his scalp just a little.

"Everyone has secrets, I've learned. Even a man with a position so minor in the British government they can't seem to give him a proper title or even list his office at work." That made him smile—he did like it when people teased. People did it to him so rarely—fear, which was ridiculous—that even the slightest teasing dig was appreciated.

"Even the least may sometimes make a crucial difference, Molly," he said, leaning more fully over her and urging her knee up to cradle her leg along his side. He kissed her, loving the feel of her lips and the tiny prick of coolness coming from where her hand curled at the back of his neck—the cool metal of the ring she'd let him put on her. They would get married when his brother came out of hiding, he'd decided.

"I love you, Molly Hooper."

"And I love you, Mycroft Holmes."

Anyone but Molly would have said that his smile was unkind just before he kissed her again. They would have been intimidated by what he said, too, just a single word.

"Good."

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	5. Chapter 5

Those of you re-reading this from where I've got it on tumblr will notice that this and chapter 4 were switched around. Mostly because I felt like it made more sense this way. If I had gone with a much longer fic (which I can't often handle very well and didn't have the energy to do so with this one), I would have left it as-is. However as this is the end of the story, as I planned it, having Richard and Peter at the very end is a great deal more believable arc-wise.

Also adorable old couple warning!

Enjoy!

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Peter smiled as he came back from getting the post. The little country house he'd retired to had a comfortably short lane down to the main road where their box was. Richard was sitting in the living room, writing in his journal with his feet slippered and a light blanket drawn over his shoulders. Richard was nearing ninety, and wanted to record his life story being the lover of a secret agent, the lover of the head of a secret agency. It was to be a fascinating story, he'd told Peter.

Young Mycroft had made sure that he and Richard had no rates to pay—no water bill, no power bill, nothing. It was nice, but did diminish their amount of mail sadly. Peter had always found it a bit fascinating to open documents which belonged to him.

Speaking of Mycroft…

"Richard, Mycroft's sent us a letter."

"Oh?"

"Oh, no, _two_ letters." Richard gently pushed himself up, coming up behind Peter and putting a cool arm around his waist. Peter reached for the letter opener and worked open the first envelope. It was small, an elegant little thing.

_Belinda Holmes would like to invite you to celebrate the marriage of her son _Mycroft Holmes_ to _Molly Hooper_, on August 30, 2013 at 11:00 in the morning…_

Richard's arm tightened around his waist, his cool lips brushing against Peter's neck as Peter read the letter aloud. Belinda was the mother of the two children they had treated as their own for much of their lives—in some alternate life where Peter hadn't gotten back together with Richard he probably would have married Belinda in the ultimate subterfuge. Been like his mentor George, in that sense.

"We should go."

"Of course, he would be heartbroken if we didn't."

"What does the other one have to say?"

Peter set the wedding invitation aside, picking up the heftier letter—there were several pieces of paper folded up at least. Inside were documents, files. All of them were neatly compiled in just the way he'd taught Mycroft to years and years ago, all according to the method of creating a good, well-rounded identity. He scanned through the papers quickly, noting the forgeries and the false-aging done to the sheets in some cases. Nothing that would stand up against the methods used by the Service, but good enough for other government work.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he pressed his lips together in an effort to keep them from falling.

There was a brand new wedding certificate inside, made out for himself and Richard—witnessed by Mycroft and one of his assistants. To the side were adoption papers, making Mycroft his legal son—making Richard into Sherlock's legal father, the dates forged back to the early 1980s. There were also detritus information papers—signed receipts, invitations to parties, half-filled-out RSVPs, small family photos ready to be framed, old tax records. All of the bits and pieces of information which properly made up two lives lived jointly.

There was a note, folded neatly and settled in the back of the envelope.

_This should have been done a long time ago, as you have given far more than you've ever been repaid for. There is another box that I'm having one of my Antheas make up for you, but this seemed appropriate given the other letter you'll be receiving with this. She has been begging to meet you, and we hope to visit soon._

_M_

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